Kingship
by Icy Wolf Rage
Summary: Aragorn questions himself and why he's King as he carries a gravely injured Legolas to Minis Tirith.


A/N - Once again, this is a deathfic, please only read it if that type of thing doesn't bother you. This is technically an AU, but don't hold that against me.

Disclaimer - I don't own Aragorn, Legolas, not even Brego. All characters, except Ranviel, are Tolkien's.

**Kingship**:

"Hold on, Legolas," my words are soft, reassuring, an ironic twist I'm surprised I can manage considering they're spoken through gasps of exertion. There's a certain numbness that has slowly crept over my mind, engulfing it, since the battle that caused this disaster, making all but the most instinctive movements impossible. While one hand urges Brego over the barren plains, one arm is desperately clutched around the wounded archer's waist, hiking him up across my chest every time he slips due to the massive amount of blood on armor, saddle and cloth. Thanks to him, none of it is mine.

To my eyes, Minis Tirith is but a small dot on the horizon, the seven tiers barely visible as they rise up to meet the fading sun. Somewhere deep in my unconscious, a whispering voice taunts the dark; tells me that the Houses of Healing are too far away to be of any help, and yet, that's my destination. Without any herbs on hand, it's the only hope there is left, yet I can see that hope slowly fading away with every drop of blood the gusting winds tear from my dear friends' limp body.

'He shouldn't have been there,' the voice in my head murmurs once more, at least the hundredth time since watching the Elven prince fall at Osgiliath, taking the blade that was meant for me, and with all my being, I know it's true. It wasn't his battle, although that had never stopped him before. With over five years of war beneath my belt as King of Gondor, Legolas had been there at each and every one, battling beside me. He'd never understood why I had to be along side my warriors as they fought and fell; the fact that he was a prince and had done the same many times before notwithstanding.

As the guilt gnaws at my very soul, old memories are tirelessly stirred, the freshest of those being from Helm's Deep, and another Elf whose death I had caused.

Haldir.

I'm so very sorry, my friend.

Who did I think I was? Death surrounded me, yet it never took _me_, instead taking those around me that I cared deeply for. When was it my turn? Would it ever _be _my turn? Or was I damned to watch as everyone around me became the bounty of the Barrow-wights, until only myself and they remained.

Barely do I notice that we've finally passed through the main gates into the city, a spark of hope rekindled as the commoner's jump out of the way of the rampant horse with screeches of protest. I'll explain to them later the need for haste.

Ranviel, one of the healer's helper's, is already outside the building, gathering Legolas in his arms as I pass the archer down to him as carefully, yet quickly, as I can. Without stead to my own mortality, I jump from Brego's back and usher the man into the healing rooms as I gather the needed herbs. Never would I have thought we'd make it here in time, yet Legolas kept a hold on this realm. A long time ago, he'd told me Dwarves were a stubborn lot... a slight underestimation of the power of an Elf, I say.

Just as I return to the rooms, herbs in hand, I see a shuddering breath rip through the slender Elven body. The final breath before the ethereal plunge. It's too late. Ranviel's face says as much.

With blurry vision and a roar of protest, I violently fling my helmet off into the distance, barely hearing it clatter to the stone floor. The symbol of my kingship is no longer of any value to me. What good is a King if he cannot keep his people safe? Without the ability to protect them, I am no better than a commoner in robes.

Ranviel moves to comfort me, yet I brush his attempts aside. Legolas' death is just another to add to the growing number of friends I've lost, and though I tell myself this, the pain lingers. And it will, for many years to come, for if it ever disappears entirely, I'll know I've finally joined the ranks of the dead. Ah, and what a time I hunger for, to be reunited with those I've met and lost.

Yet Arwen remains in her chambers, waiting for my return, and return I must. Memory will keep the dead alive until the time for reunification comes knocking at my door. Until then, my people count on me.

Sighing, I slowly move to gather the Elf in my arms. A burial in the woods of Lothlorien is deserved, as Mirkwood is still not a place one travels to lightly. Ranviel raises a cloth over Legolas' fair features as I release my grip, and I tell myself tomorrow morning will be the time to say the final goodbye.

As the day fades, and the night arises, I'm aware that there is still a battle being fought at Osgiliath, and although today has finished on a sorrowful note, we must make it through til the end. Not the end of the day, but to the end of this evil time. We must fight until the last breath is taken. Surrender is not an option.


End file.
